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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341341" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At His Grave</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">LEAVE me a little while alone, <br>Here at his grave that still is strown <br> With crumbling flower and wreath; <br>The laughing rivulet leaps and falls, <br>The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls, <br> And he lies hush’d beneath. <br> <br>With myrtle cross and crown of rose, <br>And every lowlier flower that blows, <br> His new-made couch is dress’d; <br>Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild, <br>Gather’d by monarch, peasant, child, <br> A nation’s grief attest. <br> <br>I stood not with the mournful crowd <br>That hither came when round his shroud <br> Pious farewells were said. <br>In the fam’d city that he sav’d, <br>By minaret crown’d, by billow lav’d, <br> I heard that he was dead. <br> <br>Now o’er his tomb at last I bend, <br>No greeting get, no greeting tend,<br> Who never came before <br>Unto his presence, but I took, <br>From word or gesture, tone or look, <br> Some wisdom from his door. <br> <br>And must I now unanswer’d wait, <br>And, though a suppliant at the gate, <br> No sound my ears rejoice? <br>Listen! Yes, even as I stand, <br>I feel the pressure of his hand, <br> The comfort of his voice. <br> <br>How poor were Fame, did grief confess <br>That death can make a great life less, <br> Or end the help it gave! <br>Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may wane, <br>But his well-ripen’d deeds remain, <br> Untouch’d, above his grave. <br> <br>Let this, too, soothe our widow’d minds; <br>Silenced are the opprobrious winds <br> Whene’er the sun goes down; <br>And free henceforth from noonday noise,<br>He at a tranquil height enjoys <br> The starlight of renown. <br> <br>Thus hence we something more may take <br>Than sterile grief, than formless ache, <br> Or vainly utter’d vow; <br>Death hath bestow’d what life withheld <br>And he round whom detraction swell’d <br> Hath peace with honor now. <br> <br>The open jeer, the covert taunt, <br>The falsehood coin’d in factious haunt,<br> These loving gifts reprove. <br>They never were but thwarted sound <br>Of ebbing waves that bluster round <br> A rock that will not move. <br> <br>And now the idle roar rolls off, <br>Hush’d is the gibe and sham’d the scoff, <br> Repress’d the envious gird; <br>Since death, the looking-glass of life, <br>Clear’d of the misty breath of strife, <br> Reflects his face unblurr’d.<br> <br>From callow youth to mellow age, <br>Men turn the leaf and scan the page, <br> And note, with smart of loss, <br>How wit to wisdom did mature, <br>How duty burn’d ambition pure,<br> And purged away the dross. <br> <br>Youth is self-love; our manhood lends <br>Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends, <br> So that when age steals nigh, <br>How few find any worthier aim <br>Than to protract a flickering flame, <br> Whose oil hath long run dry! <br> <br>But he, unwitting youth once flown, <br>With England’s greatness link’d his own, <br> And, steadfast to that part, <br>Held praise and blame but fitful sound, <br>And in the love of country found <br> Full solace for his heart. <br> <br>Now in an English grave he lies: <br>With flowers that tell of English skies <br> And mind of English air, <br>A grateful sovereign decks his bed, <br>And hither long with pilgrim tread <br> Will English feet repair. <br> <br>Yet not beside his grave alone <br>We seek the glance, the touch, the tone; <br> His home is nigh,—but there, <br>See from the hearth his figure fled, <br>The pen unrais’d, the page unread, <br> Untenanted the chair! <br> <br>Vainly the beechen boughs have made <br>A fresh green canopy of shade, <br> Vainly the peacocks stray; <br>While Carlo, with despondent gait, <br>Wonders how long affairs of State <br> Will keep his lord away. <br> <br>Here most we miss the guide, the friend; <br>Back to the churchyard let me wend, <br> And, by the posied mound, <br>Lingering where late stood worthier feet,<br>Wish that some voice, more strong, more sweet, <br> A loftier dirge would sound. <br> <br>At least I bring not tardy flowers: <br>Votive to him life’s budding powers, <br> Such as they were, I gave— <br>He not rejecting, so I may <br>Perhaps these poor faint spices lay, <br> Unchidden, on his grave!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alfred+Austin">Alfred Austin</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341341" data-title="At His Grave de Alfred Austin" data-description="LEAVE me a little while alone, 
Here at his grave that still is strown 
 With crumbling flower and wreath; 
The laughing rivulet leaps and falls, 
The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls, 
 And he lies hush’d beneath. 
 
With myrtle cross and crown ..."></div>
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